Peace and Quiet
by Feej
Summary: There was a very good reason he didn't share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. It was good to be reminded of that every now and then. Serie of vignettes on the lives of Lestrade and Sherlock. Mixed genres, humor, drama, adventure, not chronological. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Peace and Quiet

**Peace and Quiet**

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><p>There was a very good reason he didn't share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. It was good to be reminded of that every now and then. This was one of those every-now-and-then moments. Lestrade rose from his chair and moved towards the source of the high-speed deductions hitting his eardrums.<p>

He picked Sherlock from the couch with surprising ease, wrapped the ridiculous coat around his lanky form, and shoved him out the door. "That's it. Go and annoy Mycroft. And I will have that back, thank you." He muttered, retrieving another ID badge from the detective's quick fingers. Honestly, the man must have been a professional thief in a former life. Well, I say former…

Ignoring the shouts of protest, he closed the door in Sherlock's face and marched back up the stairs.

He sighed. A night without deductions, without tripping over long limbs, spread across the floor while owner of said limbs was 'reading' case files (flitting through several case files at once that is, sitting up against the wall in a position that should probably not be used for reading, and should probably not look that graceful).

Lestrade leaned against the wall for a while, observing the chaos his genius had created in his flat.

"Impossible," he muttered. He started sorting out some of the folders, collecting tea mugs in various states of emptiness. How, just… how… did his favorite mug end up balancing on top of the, what was that? He rubbed his forehead and suspiciously eyed the content of the mug. Not good. Ah, well, he didn't like the mug anyway. He took out his phone and started typing.

"_It's purple. Well, it was. I assume that concludes the experiment?"_

The reply was almost immediate. "_You wouldn't dare…"_

Lestrade grinned and poured the content of the cup (now smoking slightly) in the sink.

He spent several hours restoring his apartment, before he allowed himself to relax. Taking in the living room area, he sighed contentedly. Better. Much better. He grabbed a beer and flopped down on the couch.

After ten full minutes of blistering silence, he was almost glad to hear Sherlock pick the lock.

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><p><strong>Note: Thank you for reading this! I'd like to write more of these, so reviews-critics-suggestions make me happy! (Unless they are very flame-like that is, then i'll cry first and then use them anyway to improve ficlet no. 2...;)<strong>

**Thanks to Sidney Sussex for the beta-comments!**


	2. Chapter 2: No Promises

Disclaimerthing: I don't own the characters etc.

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><p><strong>No Promises<strong>

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><p>Lestrade knew. He couldn't, but he did.<p>

Sherlock hadn't said a word, of course. _That had been the first clue_.

He had been pacing up and down his apartment, occupying hIs kitchen table with all kinds of chemicals he did not want to know more about thank you very much, reading Moriarty's file again and again, and on top of that, he called Mycroft four times.

Called. Mycroft. Four bloody times.

Speaking in French, obviously, much to Lestrade's dismay. Not that it mattered; he could still figure out most of the conversation reading Sherlock's face, voice and the way his shoulders stiffened every now and then.

And of course 'Moriarty' could hardly be a French verb, now could it…

After that, Sherlock had suddenly gone quiet. He had sat down for fifteen full minutes of wordless scribbling on a worn copy of London's city map, before he stood up, looked at Lestrade, screwed up the map, and headed for the door without a word.

No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't be this stupid, this reckless, careless. He knew better. He _should_ bloody well know better. Lestrade felt a familiar fear rise in his stomach and marched towards the door as well.

He grabbed a fistful of the grey coat already brushing past him.

"You can't," he said, the words tumbling from his lips, not even sounding half as angry as had felt them burning on his tongue.

Sherlock stopped, turned on his heels and stared at him, his face blank but the grey eyes almost pleading. "Promise me you won't come after me."

He shook his head, anger flaring up in his chest, then mixing with the toxic cocktail of worry and love at the sight of the younger man.

"Then promise me you won't go and let him kill you."

He tried not to make it sound like a plea. Pleading wouldn't work on Sherlock. He grabbed the bony shoulders, forcing the man to look him in the eye.

"Promise me!" he barked.

Confusion and fear flashed over Sherlock's face. He then merely closed his eyes, grabbed Lestrade's wrists and rested his forehead against his own.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

A heartbeat, then he was gone.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading, I loved writing this. <strong>  
><strong>And, of course, thanks to the wonderful reviewers, and Sidney Sussex, Rae666 and L'Estrade for betareading!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3: Filled

Disclaimer: don't own (thank God, they would bring down the house!)

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><p><strong>Filled<strong>

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><p>Lestrade didn't like Tuesdays. Never had, never would. Especially the grey and rainy ones, like today. They reminded him of days best not remembered, best forgotten. Every now and then, memories of those days came too close, crawling under his skin, whirling behind his eyes, making him worry others would notice just by looking into those eyes.<p>

Those days were not the best days.

What he needed, he told himself, walking the cloudy streets of London, was a shower. A long hot shower, a cup of coffee, and some peace and quiet at his flat.

And a cigarette, oh, God, he needed a smoke.

Gritting his teeth he shook his head to himself. Bad day, bad day… He could almost hear a little voice in his head (sounding suspiciously like Sherlock-insufferable-know-it-all-Holmes) telling him to stick to the nicotine patches.

His fingers twitched. Damn the patches.

He turned the corner of Baker Street, the stack of folders clutched to his side, when thick raindrops started falling. He swore loudly, ignoring the looks passers-by seemed to send him. _Just_ what he needed to make this day even more bloody brilliant, getting soaked in the rain while playing case-file-delivery-boy for that sociopathic genius of his.

He groaned in frustration as he fumbled for his key outside 221B.

A single long and tenuous note drifted from the open window above, getting more shrill and more urgent as Lestrade finally located the key (_the bloody thing!)_.

His head snapped up when the now penetrating note suddenly cut itself off, launching into slow, lazy lines of low tones, a melody he almost recognized, but not quite.

He didn't open the door. Breathed the music in, let it echo in his ears, wrap itself around his mind and fill the now empty space behind his eyes until there was room for nothing other than the haunting yet soothing melody of another lost soul, wailing above him.

How long had he been standing here? And when had the music changed to major key? He hadn't noticed. Notes, tumbling over one another, dancing in his chest and tiptoeing in his fingers, had started to float down the street.

He could almost swear he could feel the cold and wet street beneath his feet shudder at the last dramatic chords drawn from the violin.

Or maybe was that just him.

He let out a breath he surely hadn't been holding.

He breathed in, and allowed his mind to slowly get out of the vegetable mode it had been lured into by the music.

Lestrade dropped the file on the doormat (not wanting to know what caused the blue stain covering half of its 'welcome') and walked home, soaked to the bone and inexplicably at peace with the world.

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><p><strong>I'm amazed by all the reviews and comments I get for this story, they make my day :) <strong>

**And thanks to my brilliant betareaders! **


	4. Chapter 4: Tie

_ Sidney Sussex and I both did our own take on 'Sherlock and the bow tie'. I hope you enjoy it!_

_If you haven't read Sidney's 'To tie a tie', it's brilliant. It's in my favourite stories, I made it easy for you. I'm that kind ;)  
><em>

_Disclaimer: don't own the characters._

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><p><strong>Tie<strong>

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><p>"Put this on."<p>

Sherlock caught the ruffled fabric Lestrade threw him, and eyed it suspiciously.

"It's a bow tie," Lestrade elaborated.

Sherlock sent him a glare. "I can see that."

"You're supposed to wear it." Lestrade couldn't quite keep the grin from forming on his face.

Sherlock decided not to dignify this with an answer, and moved towards the large mirror at the other end of the bedroom, his slender fingers toying with the piece of cloth.

Lestrade left the room and busied himself with the remains of his latest try at cooking a proper meal. He had given that up soon enough, after finding some rather convincing evidence of Sherlock's latest experiment lingering in the frying pan. He preferred Chinese anyway.

After fifteen minutes of silence in the other room, Lestrade's brow furrowed. Silence, he had come to understand, wasn't good. He peered into the bedroom, and couldn't help but smile.

In front of the mirror stood Sherlock everyone-else-is-an-idiot Holmes, an expression of utter concentration covering his features, fiddling with the bow tie. Lestrade quirked an eyebrow.

Sherlock's face contorted in frustration as he let out an exasperated huff, muttering silently to himself. His massive mop of curls tamed for the occasion, the lanky form wrapped in a slightly oversized tuxedo, the man looked younger than ever.

Lestrade simply looked at him, a strange feeling settling firmly in the pit of his stomach. What kind of a father would not teach his youngest son to properly fix a tie… He shook his head. He had learned not to ask.

He crossed the room, nudged the clumsy fingers away and tied the thing properly. Sherlock just looked at him, his expression unreadable, before averting his gaze, focusing on Lestrade's hands fixing the tie, absorbing the deliberately slow movements.

"There," Lestrade stepped back. "Let's go."

Sherlock gave him a blinding smile, grabbed his coat and dashed out of the room. Lestrade just smiled. "You're welcome."


	5. Chapter 5: Damage control

Disclaimer: don't own these characters. BBC does, I believe...

Warnings: mentions of drug abuse

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><p><strong>Damage control<strong>

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><p>Lestrade felt his temper rise. The foolish kid. Months of fighting it, halfway through withdrawal, and now this? He would not have it.<p>

He waved at the syringe, now crushed on the floor where he had thrown it, and glared at the younger man. "I should have you arrested for this," he snapped.

Sherlock merely smiled and leaned lazily against the doorframe. "I'd like to see you try."

Lestrade's left hand made the tiniest movement towards his pocket. Of course the little git noticed.

Sherlock's smile turned in to a no-good grin. "If I didn't know you better I would think you'd actually like to try and get me into those handcuffs," he drawled. "now, I wonder what – "

Lestrade shoved him into the wall. Hard. "I will not have you on drugs anymore, not in my flat, not in that shithole you live in, I will not have it!"

Sherlock pushed him away. Hard as well. "I don't care. I can control it."

"No, you bloody can't. You are ruining yourself," Lestrade moved forward again, reaching out "If you would just listen – "

Sherlock scoffed, and backed off. "You're beginning to sound just like Mycroft."

A frustrated groan. "Maybe I should have listened to _him_ in the first place! He _was_ right when he warned me about you and your psychopathic – " he stopped right there. Too late.

He might as well have punched the younger man for the look on Sherlock's face. A sickening mix of betrayal, confusion and then anger flashed in his eyes for mere seconds, before being replaced by the cold stone mask Lestrade had come to fear over the months.

When he spoke, his words were venom, meant to hurt before killing slowly. "You're just like the rest of them. Boring, uninventive, incompetent, brainless," – "Sherlock!" – "... no ambition either, yes, I can see why she left you".

They faced each other for twenty long seconds, heads held high, neither one backing off. Lestrade broke the silence first. "Piss off."

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><p>Lestrade had told him to piss off, so he had done just that. Sherlock rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.<p>

He had gone too far. Self-proclaimed sociopath or not, he knew exactly how far he could go with Lestrade, and he had blown it.

What had he said again? Thoughts were tumbling through his head and whirling in his mind, incoherent for once. This would be different, wouldn't it? Lestrade had cared. He was not like the rest of them. And yet he was. He had talked to Mycroft behind his back, just like the rest. Thought he was a psychopath, just like the rest. Told him to piss of, just like the rest, ignorant, brainless -.

What had he said? I can see why she left you. He winced at the memory. Not good. Unforgivable, it seemed, from the look the DI had shot him. Then again he _had_ stopped wearing that ring of hers, ridiculous as it was to wear it after she left, the man could be such an idiot. He grinned, then groaned in frustration. Why did it _matter!_

He needed to fix this. Fix the look on Lestrade's face, fix the chaos of thoughts in his mind and oh God he needed the drugs. Just so he could think straight again.

He took the few steps separating him from the kitchen cabinet, opened the tin box labeled 'coffee' (his hiding-in-plain-sight principle had worked well so far, the man was easily fooled) and started to take it out; the tubes, syringes, the coke. His hands shook _maybe I should have eaten_ and he blinked to regain his focus. He realized what had to be done - surely Lestrade would understand?- to fix this, once and for all.

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><p>Lestrade sighed, resting his head back against the doorframe. That hadn't gone well. He had worked hard enough, getting Sherlock to trust him, and it seemed he had just blown it, damage done. God, the look on the kid's face, he might have actually hurt him.<p>

He almost laughed at his own thoughts. Ha, hurt Sherlock, the man was as good as unbreakable. The only one that could possibly hurt him was Sherlock himself and that wo-.

The temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees at least, as Lestrade felt the realization hit him square in the face. "Surely he wouldn't…"

But then again, he _had_, before. Vivid images of clammy pale skin, unseeing eyes, hospital beds and tubes and wires danced before his eyes. Shit. Lestrade blinked them away and ran out the door.

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><p>By the time Lestrade stormed down the stairs to the dark <em>thing<em> Sherlock called his apartment (dungeon would be a more adequate term, Lestrade had often told him), his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. "Would he - no he wouldn't - but what if he - and will I be there on time - and oh God this is _not_ my fault."

He made as if to force the door open, but realized it wasn't locked. It wasn't even closed. Lestrade paused, breathed, and entered the dimly-lit room, prepared for almost everything, except for the sight that met his eyes.

On the dirty matress at the far end of the room, lay the thin form of Sherlock bloody Holmes, curled in on himself. Breathing evenly, and obviously asleep.

At the opposite side of the room, very much in plain sight, sat a collection of syringes, tubes and several bags of cocaine. A collection Lestrade had _not _been able to find on his latest drugs bust, - even though he had suspected its existence - basically because if _this_ smart piece of trouble decided to hide something, Lestrade, being a mere mortal, would sure as hell _never_ find it.

The DI hesitantly entered the room, and moved towards the sleeping detective.

Lestrade understood. Of course he did. Realization dawned on him after mere seconds, and he couldn't help letting a relieved smile form itself on his face.

"Stupid kid", he mumbled, collecting the various packs of cocaine and making his way to the bathroom. He flushed it all down the drain. He took the syringes and crushed them properly before binning them; same for the tubes.

He made coffee, ordered takeout, threw a blanket over his idiotic detective and left the place.

He almost missed the small shadow of a smile dancing over Sherlock's lips.

Almost, but not quite.

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><p><strong>Couldn't get this idea out of my head, so I decided to write in out :) <strong>

**Thank you for your lovely reviews, they make me smile (aaand laugh out loud in the library, which is very inconvenient, ah, who cares, thanks!) **

**And Sidney thanks again for beta-ing (did I invent that verb or is it an existing one...)!**


	6. Chapter 6: Definitions

Disclaimer: i don't own these characters

_To Louise, hope it makes you smile :)_

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><p><strong>Definitions<strong>

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><p>Sherlock held out the suit. "Just put this on, we haven't got forever."<p>

"Ok, just assuming I do actually wear this thing you brought me, and that I actually _go_ to this party, which you claim is necessary because you admit defeat – "

"I do not," Sherlock interrupted. "I need an extra pair of eyes. Mycroft insisted I bring someone along since there are too many people and there will be too much happening at the same time for me to survey it all. "

The DI grinned. "As I said, because you admit you need help," (Sherlock decided to just roll his eyes this time) "and assuming they let me in... " "Of course they will," impatient this time. "Mycroft arranged an invitation for me, for us."

Lestrade eyed the suit. "Just wondering, why couldn't you drag John along to play hide and seek with this Moran character?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "John made it very clear that if I ever were to get him to one of those… gatherings, or puppet shows as he likes to call them, again, I might just come home to find my mouse-blood experiment in a somewhat lesser state."

He broke into a grin. "And of course, John looks laughable in a tuxedo."

"And I don't?" Lestrade said disbelievingly. Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then just shot him a no-good-_are-you-sure-you-want-me-to-elaborate_-grin. Lestrade decided that, no, he did not want him to, and yes he'd probably get changed. There was no such thing as arguing with Sherlock when he was like this.

He shoved the genius out of his bedroom and tried the suit, expecting the sleeves to be too long, as they always were, the shoulders to be too tight, as usual. None of that. Lestrade's head popped out of the door. "This is tailored," he stated. Sherlock just quirked an eyebrow. "Yes?" _Your point?_ "How did you know-" Two eyebrows this time. "Of course you would," Lestrade finished, muttering under his breath.

He fixed his tie, eyeing himself in the large mirror, as Sherlock watched him over his shoulder. His brow furrowed; assuming he did wear the suit, assuming he did go to the party, and they did let him in when Sherlock would probably just state, "He's with me," what did that make him?

Sherlock flashed him a smile, a rare and uncomplicated real smile. "Does it matter?" While Lestrade caught the shoes the detective threw him (the ones he had kept Sherlock-proof-hidden in the kitchen), he found that, no, it didn't.

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><p><strong>This one just popped into my head while watching a movie a week or so ago, and refused to go. <strong>

Sydney, thanks for your lovely feedback everytime I throw these little snippets in your direction! :)


	7. Note: chapter 6

Warning: sorry, not a chapter!

Just a note about the previous chapter, 6: it somehow didn't show on the website yesterday and this morning. Thanks for pointing it out to me! I uploaded it again, so for those of you who couldn't read it the first time: it's up now!

The real chapter 7 will be up soon, sorry for the inconvenience!


	8. Chapter 8: Bait

Disclaimer: don't own, do love to write about them :)

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><p><strong>Bait<strong>

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><p>He <em>knew<em> Sherlock knew the drink was drugged, so he _knew_ he hadn't been drinking it, not really. But somehow, the man was such a convincing actor that Lestrade found his stomach turning upon hearing the confused and slightly slurred voice coming from his earpiece. He just sounded so bloody _weak_. Not at all like Sherlock, and very much like the easy prey their killer was looking for.

It made Lestrade shudder.

It was, he decided, a good thing John wasn't here. The man would explode when he saw this. Lestrade himself bit back a white-hot wave of anger that was threatening to escape from his lips and burst out into the dimly-lit pub in the form of an outraged roar, when he saw the man trail Sherlock's jaw line with one finger, a hungry, wolf-like grin plastered on his face, before practically dragging the detective outside.

Lestrade followed, signaling the rest of the team to move along, ready to jump in.

He didn't have to wait long.

He snapped into action the moment his suspect made the wrong move (because yes, slamming _his_ Sherlock into a wall and telling him exactly what he had planned for him was a _very_ wrong move as far as Lestrade was concerned. Not to mention a very nice piece of evidence).

By the time Lestrade reached the two figures, Sherlock was already telling the killer exactly how much of an idiot he was (honestly, didn't he notice him spilling the drink instead of drinking it?), ducking the man's outraged punches with an ease that was almost elegance.

Lestrade tackled and handcuffed the now defeated man with maybe a _tad_ more force than necessary, and shoved him into the police car, not a bit too kindly either.

He glanced over at the now smiling detective, checking for injuries, and relieved to find none. He moved over to the other man. "Are you all right?" Sherlock looked confused for a second, then simply stared at Lestrade and nodded, a glint of _something_ flashing in his piercing grey eyes.

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><p>Back at the Yard, Lestrade found himself still high on a strange mix of anger and adrenaline - which wasn't very convenient, given the huge amount of paperwork this case had brought him. After thirty long minutes of trying to explain how they had caught his latest serial killer (official reports weren't supposed to include words such as bait…) he decided this could wait, as could everything else.<p>

He turned around in his chair and faced the consulting detective, lounging in a very uncomfortable chair at the other side of the room (a chair no one but Sherlock Holmes could use to actually _lounge_ in), as a flash of the unidentified anger seared through him once again.

"Ok, off you go, statements tomorrow, get some sleep." Lestrade rubbed his forehead and looked up at the lanky man, dark curls still messed up, a grin on his face.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, leaning slightly back in his chair.

"You are," came the lazy reply, "going all protective on me, it's highly amusing to watch, you know that?"

"Oh shut up," Lestrade growled. Sherlock just smiled and headed for the door, ducking the paper cup thrown at his head, leaving the sound of the DI's muttering (_impossibly reckless no-good piece of-_) mixed with his own low chuckles, floating down the hall of Scotland Yard.


	9. Chapter 9: Fine

This story directly follows chapter 2, 'No promises'

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><p><strong>Fine<strong>

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><p>Of course he had followed him. There was no way the man was going to do this alone. Not anymore.<p>

It only took Sherlock five minutes to lose him in the still crowded streets of London-by-night.

The DI howled in frustration, unaware of the glances sent in his direction. Without thinking, he hailed a cab and went straight for 221B. Of course there were no clues; he should have known. That didn't stop him from hurling books and papers through the already cluttered living room though, or desperately digging in the piles of notes, scribbled down in that parody of writing Sherlock did, hoping for a hint, a direction as to where to go next.

He lost track of time and blinked wearily as the sun started to filter through the make-shift windows. He vaguely noticed they still hadn't been replaced. He should ask Mycroft to fix that.

He shook his head to clear it from the fog of worry and anger and _what-was-that_, that was preventing his mind from working properly. He went home to find his flat still empty. Obviously.

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><p>Mycroft was grateful for his call. Mycroft told him not to worry, that he would do everything he could to find Sherlock.<p>

He also told him he was so very sorry when they still hadn't caught a glimpse of his younger brother three days later. Lestrade told him that he should bloody well feel sorry, before abruptly ending the call.

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><p>It was three more days before Sherlock showed up. Lestrade's keen ears picked up the sound of someone fumbling at his front door. He opened the door to find said someone trying to pick his lock, with numb fingers that were not steady enough to manage just that.<p>

Sherlock started and dropped the piece of iron he had tried to use, blinking to regain his focus. He looked an absolute mess, like the route he took to get to Lestrade's flat again included at least one sewer, a swim in the Thames (maybe two) and a few stacks of coals to climb. Sharp coals, it seemed.

He gave Lestrade a cautious smile as he got to his feet, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Lestrade blinked, swallowed, and before the rational part of himself could do anything but shout _"bad idea"_, he had practically pushed Sherlock flat against the wall.

"What... just, _what_ were you thinking!" He slammed his fist into the wall next to the detective's head. Sherlock flinched. "You mindless idiotic egoistical _git_," Lestrade hissed, anger raging through his veins, blurring his vision and making his head hurt. He couldn't care less what the man tried to say between ragged breaths. He grabbed his shoulders and shook the thin frame. "You will never do this again!" he bellowed, "Ever!"

He would have kept shaking him, if it hadn't been for Sherlock's going limp in his grip. Groaning, Lestrade lowered himself to the floor, gathering the now positively skinny detective in his arms and holding on tight.

The mass of black curls on his shoulder muttered a barely audible "promise - 'msorry," before rolling to the side, eyes fluttering closed.

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><p>Lestrade sat in the hallway, still holding Sherlock's unmoving form. He should get the man to the sofa, he supposed. Or a hospital. Probably a hospital.<p>

He checked his breathing. Again. Still fine.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head, resting it against the wall behind his head. For now, it was all fine.

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><p><strong>Thanks to all my wonderful readers and reviewers! And Sidney, thanks for betaing and comments ;)<br>**

:)


	10. Chapter 10: Shield

Disclaimer: don't own...

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><p><strong>Shield<strong>

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><p>It was, Lestrade mused, a good thing, to be on the safe side of Sherlock's anger.<p>

He had seen the man angry of course; yelling at well-meaning officers that were strangely unaware of the don't-even-ask policy that applied to Sherlock's barging in on crime scenes, or sending death-glares at John after the man had wisely disposed of one of Sherlock's more dubious experiments, and, obviously, the times he had gone too far himself.

This, however, was a whole new sight. The expression on the pale face had gone from teasing to angry to scarily blank in less than a second, too fast for the criminal to notice. Of course said criminal had been too busy shoving the lanky detective aside and waving his knife in front of Lestrade's face, to pay any attention to Sherlock.

Very unwise.

And a shame as well, Lestrade couldn't help but think, as he saw the detective's eyes light up to an electric kind of blue, a storm of barely controlled energy whirling behind them, sparks of what must be lightning flashing dangerously in the blue depths.

It took Sherlock two seconds to reclaim his position, right between Lestrade and the startled criminal. Another two seconds, a fierce flurry of movements and a flash of iron, and the criminal crashed to the floor, clutching his bloody and obviously broken nose.

Sherlock breathed heavily, still blocking Lestrade's view of the criminal, who seemed to have passed out by now. He swallowed and turned. "You all right?" Lestrade could understand why people were scared of the man. The look he send him was more fierce than anything he had ever seen, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Yeah," he said looking over at the detective. "You'll need to see a doctor for that," he gestured to Sherlock's left hand.

Sherlock merely shrugged, "John will take a look at it," and continued to look at Lestrade, checking for _God-knows-what_ with that unsettling gaze of his.

Lestrade shook his head. "Typical," he muttered. He then refocused on the man on the pavement. "Just what _did _you do to him?"

Sherlock smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "Broke his nose, obviously, cracked a few ribs, probably gave him a concussion as well."

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><p>Well, that didn't make it into the official report. After a very inventive creative writing session, Lestrade walked home, happy with his statement and the one he had come up with for Sherlock (of course the man couldn't be bothered to give his own, the experiment he had running had apparently reached a very critical state, and given the fact he had said experiment running in <em>Lestrade's <em>flat, the DI had been more than happy to let him go and save his kitchen table. Or kitchen, he'd rather not know the details).

Lestrade entered his flat, taking a moment to study the genius currently occupying the dining table, kitchen floor _and_ the sink, with tubes, petri dishes and pipettes. Lestrade just couldn't bring himself to care.

He hummed, strolling through the living room and heading for the bathroom. He was still humming twenty minutes later, re-emerging into the living room and grabbing his coat again. "Takeaway?" He couldn't help but smile broadly.

Sherlock didn't even look up from his microscope and the whatever-it-was he seemed to be studying with it. "You're awfully sentimental today, do try to restrain_ some of it, _Lestrade."

He couldn't help it, he just couldn't, he bit back a grin and ruffled the black curls when he passed the kitchen on his way to the stairs.

Just before he closed the door he could hear the detective mutter, "Impossible."

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><p><strong>Thanks Sidney for betaing! <strong>

**And thank you all for reading and/or reviewing! ^^ **

Oh how I loved writing this one...**  
><strong>


	11. Chapter 11: Dial tone

**Dial tone**

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><p>"I can't. No. I told you."<p>

Silence from Sherlock. Lestrade could hear Mycroft's muted voice at the other end of the line.

Probably coming up with a very eloquent answer that would make his brother change his mind. _Well_, Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who was now angrily shaking his head, making the black curls fall in his eyes again, _good luck with that…_

"I don't care, Mycroft. I can't help you. Even if I wa… No. Yes, listen, what does that have to do with…" From his position on the sofa, Lestrade could see Sherlock's eyes narrow slightly.

"Father never held much interest in _my_ comings and goings, _Mycroft_, so I don't see why he would now." Venom dripped from every word that escaped from Sherlock's mouth, jaw clenched and lips in a thin line, corners moving down already.

Whatever the older Holmes said next, it made Sherlock's knuckles turn white around the phone.

All right. That was it.

Lestrade snatched the phone from Sherlock's fingers, adequately ignoring the indignant shouts of protest and brought the thing to his ear.

"Ah, Mycroft, yes, sorry to interrupt your _lovely _brotherly chat there. I'm… no… yes… No. I'm terribly sorry, of course, but I'm afraid I cannot let you borrow Sherlock right now. No. You see," he shot Sherlock a sideward glance, "I need him here, case, you know… Yes, yes, very important. Lots of paperwork as well." He picked up a random case file from the pile and rustled it, as if to add to his point. Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes.

"No, you don't seem to understand, Mycroft, we _need Sherlock_ to help _us_ with this case. Well, many cases, in fact…. Nooo, I'm afraid we'll be stuck on this one the whole night. Yes. And what is that supposed to mean? No. I will. Yes. Thank you."

* * *

><p>Dial tone.<p>

Mycroft stared at his phone. What… had just happened?

* * *

><p>With one swift motion Lestrade switched off the phone and threw it at Sherlock, who only just managed to duck it.<p>

Lestrade grinned. "Mycroft says hi."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Arrogant, nosy, _annoying_ piece of –" but Lestrade's cough, sounding suspiciously like "Family trait!" interrupted his dark mutterings.

He sent the DI a glare before strolling to the kitchen. He rummaged in the fridge, moving the butter to the shelf John had labeled 'Gross Experiments' – honestly, didn't the man _notice _the butter was an experiment? Perhaps better not to mention it now… - knocked over a bowl of what used to be risotto – that had actually been _good _risotto – and emerged into the living room, throwing Lestrade a beer.

Quick footsteps on the stairs. Lestrade caught the beer and nodded. "That must be John." Which was confirmed by what was definitely John's voice, shouting "Lestrade! If he's trying to escape, restrain him if you must!"

Sherlock huffed and flopped down on the couch, almost grinning. He managed a scowl when John came in, but failed to maintain it when he smelled the curry his flatmate was carrying.

"So," Lestrade rubbed his hands, smiling broadly at John and then turning to Sherlock, leaning back into the sofa, "'Diamonds Are Forever', or 'Die Another Day'?"

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for reading! <strong>

This one was written for a prompt, by Sidney, who wanted to see Lestrade defending Sherlock to Mycroft, and Mycroft being surprised at that. Thanks for the brilliant prompt! :D


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